


Set You Apart

by hato



Series: Untitled Series [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Sexual Content, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 22:24:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hato/pseuds/hato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times John and Sherlock have sex and One time they make love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Set You Apart

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** The characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. This particular version belongs to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and BBC. 
> 
> **Inspired by:** _The Scientist_ by Coldplay. And Annie *achoo*
> 
>  **A/N:** One instance is mentioned in _Hand Holding._ Another is detailed in _A Need to Focus_. But neither is crucial to the understanding of this piece.

  
1.  
  
John rubs the side of his face against Sherlock’s temple.   
  
Blood and mud and sewage water smear from his ear to the tip of his nose. Dribbling down his collar. They both reek. Iron and sweat and the clinging film of decay.   
  
He grinds against the lean thigh wedged between his legs.  Sherlock pinning him to the textured wallpaper in the dark downstairs entry.  Frantic thrusting. Erections trapped behind wet, grimy fabric.   
  
Painful friction. Cold doubts. Harsh coughs and sharp hisses.   
  
He fists his hands in the back of Sherlock’s coat and swears softly.   
  
John needs this.   
\--------------------------------------  
2.

  
John flinches, knuckles scraping brick.   
  
Wet heat. Tight suction. Pale fingers pressing his bruised hip. Sherlock breathing through his nose, blackened eye looking up through dark lashes. Plush lips sliding up and down.   
  
Fine coating of sand and dirt. Everywhere.  
  
He grunts, but Sherlock holds him tightly against the pile of bricks. Perfect rhythm and press of tongue. Mostly hidden from the sirens and cameras, not nearly well enough and Christ they’re going to get caught.   
  
John’s knees hurt. His jaw still aches. Bitter salt and hint of Sherlock’s soap in his mouth.   
  
He bucks up and reaches out and barely brushes the curve of a thick curl.   
  
John really likes this.   
\--------------------------------------  
3.

  
John turns his head.   
  
And sneezes. Three times.  And moans.   
  
Splayed open on their dusty carpet with Sherlock thrusting inside him. Watching him from above. Fascinated by his muscle spasms, his facial contortions, his inability to control his own body.   
Getting off on John’s seasonal allergies. Turned on by his sneezing fits.   
  
Utterly fucking ridiculous.   
  
Utterly Sherlock.   
  
John laughs and moans and swears at Sherlock for tickling his nose with those glorious curls. It works. He sneezes violently. Rubs a shaky hand across his runny nose. Sherlock lips his shoulder.   
  
He’s so close. A rush of biochemicals clearing his sinuses in the last few moments before he arches upward.  
  
John is utterly, stupidly content with this.  
\-------------------------------  
4.

  
John collapses.   
  
Spent. Boneless. Panting and giddy.   
  
He’s sprawled across Sherlock’s sweat slick back.  Curve and hollow nestled perfectly. Enjoying Sherlock’s little gaspy moans.   
  
He presses a kiss between sharp shoulder blades. Eases back to pull free and discard the condom.  Chill air on wet skin.  John shivers and rolls to the side.   
  
His bed. His sheets. Their combined scent. He wants to kiss the closed eyelid half hidden by that crazy, sex-tumbled hair.  Strong urge to kiss those plumps, swollen lips.   
  
He pushes his hand under Sherlock’s. Slots their fingers together without a second thought. Broad grin and a gentle squeeze of that beautiful hand.   
  
And Sherlock slips away. Out of bed. Mumbling about interrupted experiments, the itch of lubricant.  A sore backside.    
  
A dark shadow passing, his bedroom door closing quietly.   
  
John is fine with this. It’s all fine.   
\---------------------------------------  
5.  
  
John is tired.   
  
Tired of pretending. For their friends. For their colleagues. For the world at large.   
  
Tired of pretending for Sherlock.   
  
For himself.   
  
Pretending he doesn’t want to curl around that lanky body every night and rest his lips at the nape of Sherlock’s neck. That he doesn’t want to reach into the empty space of the cab’s back seat and take Sherlock’s hand. That he doesn’t want to kiss Sherlock senseless every time he’s within reach.  
  
That he isn’t in love with this brilliant madman.   
  
John feels the faint whisper of warmth from Sherlock’s fingers on his face. It brings him back to what he is doing. Sitting on their sofa, spent, kissing his best mate. Kissing Sherlock. With a ferocious passion. It scares him.   
  
He pulls back, presses their foreheads together again. Unable to look, Christ he can’t look right now. Gaining space, a bit of room to breathe. To confess. “ Because I’m tired of pretending. “   
  
And he still can’t look. Can’t see what may or may not be in Sherlock’s expression. John shifts and stands and collects his things and shuts the door behind him.   
  
He makes his way upstairs. Steady steps despite the hammering of his heart, the pounding of his pulse in his temple.  He can still taste Sherlock on his tongue. Vodka and confusion.   
  
He won’t say anything tomorrow. Knows Sherlock will have deleted it all by sunrise.   
  
John can’t fucking stand this.   
\-------------------------------------------------

+1

  


John fists his hands in the sheets.   
  
Sherlock’s sheets. Sherlock’s bed.   
  
Sherlock who isn’t dead. Not dead, never dead and John is still angry about that.   
  
But right now. Right now Sherlock surrounds him. Moving inside him in a slow, steady rhythm.  Gazing down at him with an intensity that John can feel burning straight into his thoughts.   
  
Thin sheen of sweat. Scent of latex and sex and old tea in the forgotten cups on the bedside table. Whispery soft slide of skin on skin, skin on fabric, breath across skin.   
  
Aching tenderness. Plush lips on his mouth and John throws himself desperately into the kiss. Sherlock’s kiss. He searches for an anchor. Overwhelmed. Lost in sensation and emotion and the incredible fear that this will be snatched away from him again.   
  
His hand is pulled from the sheets, pressed against the mattress by his head. Long fingers slipping between, intertwining. Holding firmly.    
  
Barest hint of a whisper against his lips.  _ I’ve got you, John. _  
  
And he can’t do anything but hold onto Sherlock and ignore the tears sliding hot and itchy into his ears.   
  
This is precious.   
  
This is his life.   
  
This is his everything.  
  
John loves this.   
  
** end **

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to everyone who reads, kudos' and comments!!!


End file.
